


Establishing Arthur

by heliolater



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Magic Revealed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:53:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heliolater/pseuds/heliolater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur had decided through keen observation and finely honed intuition that Merlin was a clumsy idiot and the worst manservant that could ever be inflicted upon anybody let alone the Crown Prince, but on the second day of the fifth month in the twenty-fourth year of King Uther’s reign Arthur found out that not only was Merlin an idiot he was also spectacularly suicidal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Series 2 AU. Uther's still king, Arthur is still oblivious, and pretend Morgana still loves the world. 
> 
> This is still a WIP. I have an outline and the end written, but the middle has always been the issue with me. So be warned.

Arthur had decided through keen observation and finely honed intuition that Merlin was a clumsy idiot and the worst manservant that could ever be inflicted upon anybody let alone the Crown Prince, but on the second day of the fifth month in the twenty-fourth year of King Uther’s reign Arthur found out that not only was Merlin an idiot he was also spectacularly suicidal. 

Honestly, who comes to a place where magic is expressly forbidden specifically to practice magic? Merlin did, apparently, and it was up to Arthur (who was currently crouched behind a very sturdy stone wall with the rest of his knights) to save him from himself which was going to be difficult because Merlin was stubbornly refusing to be saved. 

In fact, the idiot seemed to be going out of his way to be caught. He was standing, hand outstretched, and very obviously incanting spells in front of the entire bloody court. Granted there was a flying, two-legged dragon-wyvern-thing threatening to destroy the whole of Camelot, but that was hardly reason to go about exposing oneself and one’s magic to the entire court and Arthur’s father of all people. 

“Merlin, you great blundering idiot,” Arthur most definitely did not screech at his manservant once the wyvern was lying huge and dead amidst piles of rubble, screaming townsfolk, and a furious Uther. He bounded forward, discarding his shield and spear, and dragged Merlin off behind a convenient pile of rocks and debris, away from his father’s line of vision. 

“Merlin, you need to leave. Get out of here,” he began and Merlin had the audacity to look hurt by Arthur’s tone. 

“Arthur, I’m s—” he started, but Arthur cut him off.

“Leave. Now, Merlin,” he said, trying to impress upon him the importance of this order. Merlin, however, just opened his mouth to begin arguing. Frustrated, Arthur surged forward, gripping his friend hard by the shoulders and shaking him. 

“You can’t stay here. I won’t see you executed. Now, go,” he practically snarled the last word. He pushed Merlin who still looked equal parts stunned and defiant toward the ruined gates. “I’ll send for you when it’s safe,” he added quietly by which he meant come back to me when my father is dead. Merlin nodded jerkily and set his jaw determinedly before muttering something incomprehensible under his breath and with a slight pop and a faint swirl of smoke he winked out of sight. 

Uther was predictably livid when Arthur reported that Merlin was nowhere within Camelot’s walls or its outlying villages. He stomped around his chambers in a towering fury for days and nothing Arthur nor Morgana, although not from lack of trying, said or did could calm him. Gaius wisely stayed of sight during the weeks following the wyvern attack, looking older and more careworn than Arthur could ever remember. After Morgana had convinced him that it was unlikely that Merlin was out building a magical rebel army to bring back and destroy Camelot, Uther’s anger finally dwindled to a tiny flame of resentment and Merlin, for the most part, was forgotten.

Arthur, however, found thoughts of his former manservant nagged him whenever he had a moment to himself. Where was he? What was he doing? Once, after a particularly vivid dream of Merlin lying prone and bloody in a ditch somewhere, Arthur found himself halfway to the stables in his armor before he persuaded himself that he was being ridiculous.

The years passed and Morgana was married to King Lot of Lothian by royal decree to stave off war. Gwen cried when she saw her lady off and Morgana, grim and tearless, looked like she was being sent to her death. Even then Camelot moved on much as it had before, not missing either the strange dark-haired manservant or the king’s ward. 

It was summer when Uther contracted a mysterious wasting disease that ate at his strength and his little remaining reason. Gaius moved in and out of the king’s rooms with vials and smoking beakers, murmuring anxiously under his breath and shaking his head. In the early hours of the morning under Gaius’ care after months of illness, Uther Pendragon went out with a whimper in the dark. 

The years following were some of the most exhausting of Arthur’s life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning of his coronation Arthur rose earlier than was his custom. Fear and anticipation plucked at his nerves until he felt raw and worn out before the day had even begun. He paced the length of his room and back, sat in his chair, rose from it, went to his window, padded across the room, flung open his wardrobe and fidgeted with the cuffs of the overly elaborate coronation robes, and returned to his chair only to begin the process again a few minutes later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a much longer chapter. I hope you enjoy it. I'm still recovering from the emotional roller coaster that was the Merlin finale, but I hope to have this finished before Sunday. I make no promises though. I'm a terrible procrastinator.

The morning of his coronation Arthur rose earlier than was his custom. Fear and anticipation plucked at his nerves until he felt raw and worn out before the day had even begun. He paced the length of his room and back, sat in his chair, rose from it, went to his window, padded across the room, flung open his wardrobe and fidgeted with the cuffs of the overly elaborate coronation robes, and returned to his chair only to begin the process again a few minutes later.

He was on his seventh circuit of the room when a small brown bird fluttered into his room and perched itself on the arm of his chair as if it had every right to be there.

Arthur stared at the tiny thing for several seconds in surprise before he waved a hand at it saying, “Shoo.” The bird cocked its head to the side and studied him with one a bright beady black eye, but did not move otherwise. Slightly peeved at the bird’s utter lack of regard for him, he moved forward, swatting at the silly thing in an attempt to herd it out of the room. Instead of fleeing in fear, the bird seemed to take Arthur’s hand flapping as an invitation to relocate from the chair arm to his sleeve.

“Do you know who—“he began, but promptly cut himself off because he was about to become king of Camelot and he should not, under any circumstances, be found talking to birds like a madman.

Arthur eyed the wren on his sleeve with irritation. In an alternate universe, one where he did go about talking to birds, he would have asked it what in the world it thought it was doing. The wren cocked its head at him again, ruffled its feathers, puffed up its tiny body, and let out a smug, self-important cheep.

“King Arthur,” the bird chirped, flitting up his arm and settling on his shoulder. Arthur felt his jaw drop. “The wizard Emrys sends his greets and his apologies he will not be able to attend the coronation.” Merlin, he thought grimly, gritting his teeth. The wren continued, “He is on urgent business. He also says, here the bird changed its high-pitched trill to something lower and more human, “I will be there soon. Don’t be a prat.” With that, the wren took to the air, leaving Arthur shocked and wondering if he had dreamed the whole thing. 

A soft knock on the door called him out of his reverie and Arthur called for the person to enter. His mousy manservant came in loaded down with embroidered fabric and two different crowns. One crown to match his stupid coronation robes in the morning and one to match his even stupider evening ones for the feast after. Merlin would be laughing his head off.  

\---

A week later, after various lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses, neighboring kings and queens had finished speechifying and tripping over themselves to tell Arthur how wonderful he was and how very sorry they were about Uther, Arthur was locked up in the council room listening to Geoffrey of Monmouth and the Master of Court Tradition and Procedure, Ralf, planning the rest of the coronation celebrations. Apparently, the coronation feast had been the first in a string of seemingly unending, (and completely, absolutely, positively necessary, he was assured) parties, feasts, and tournaments celebrating Arthur’s new kingship—and mourning Uther’s death, of course. The whole thing made Arthur feel vaguely sick. A feeling that was only compounded by worries about King Lot’s and Lord Caradoc’s absence from the “festivities.”

Arthur had heard very little from Morgana since her marriage, but he hoped he still had an ally in her, if not her husband. Caradoc’s absence, however, was much more worrisome. As a vassal of Camelot, his absence was in direct defiance of Arthur’s first orders as king. He had, of course, sent a messenger to tell the court that he would not be in attendance. His sister’s son was grievously ill and they could not possibly make the journey from Cornwall to Camelot, the messenger had reported.

 Usually Arthur would have been happy to granted Caradoc his pardon for his absence had this been the case, but he happened to know that his nephew was notill at all. Caradoc’s sister, Gruiner and her perfectly healthy son had arrived from her husband’s kingdom of Gwent not two days ago, bearing gifts and wishing the king well. He could have at least put a little more effort into his lie, Arthur thought grouchily.

There were also rumblings coming from Powys. Vortigern, they said, was amassing an army of Saxons to move against the rest of Albion. Arthur sighed, put these thoughts aside for the moment, and tried to drag his attention back to the present.

“Now, your Highness,” Ralf was saying, “I was thinking that you would appear in the new royal robes given to you by the Lord of Wessex for the tournament. That light shade of red will suit you, I think.” The robes were pink, in point of fact, and Arthur hated them with a burning passion.

“I will not,” Arthur replied matter-of-factly, massaging the bridge of his nose to stave off the inevitable headache for just a little longer. “I will be wearing my hauberk, my armour, my sword, and in all likelihood my shield. I haven’t decided.”

“Oh, _Sire_ ,” Ralf cried, sounding utterly horrified at that. “You can _not_ possibly _compete_. It isn’t _done_.”

“Very true, Sire,” Geoffrey put in authoritatively, “such a course of action is totally unprecedented. I advise against it.” Arthur resisted the strong urge to groan and tell the two of them to stuff their court traditions and precedents.

Suddenly, Arthur decided that he would not let them take this away from him. He would wear ridiculous robes, parrot back ceremonial lines, and sit through mind-numbingly boring speeches, but he would not—he absolutely refused—to let them take away his chance to thrash his knights and a whole slew of other well trained men in front of the court. His father had just died and left him the crown. He was worried about possibly rebellious vassals and enemies kings, not to mention he missed his stupid, sorcerous manservant. Arthur felt he had earned this tiny bit of fun just for himself.

\---

The next day dawned bright and without a cloud in the sky. Arthur got the satisfaction of telling Harold the mousy manservant to forget the heavy embroidered robes and two pound gold crowns and dress him in his armour instead.

“But, Sire, the Master of Court Tradition and Procedure,” Harold stuttered, looking pale.

“Damn Ralf,” Arthur answered cheerfully, relishing the words. It was at this point that a large black raven decided to flap ungainly through the window and land on top of Harold’s head.  The boy squawked, dropped his armful of royal robes, and did an amusingly accurate impression of the raven as he stumbled drunkenly about the room flapping his arms in an attempt to dislodge his new companion.

“Harold,” Arthur said in a stern, don’t move sort of tone which effected a sudden cessation of any kind of movement including breathing on Harold’s part. “Raven, come here,” commanded Arthur, lifting his arm and holding it out. The raven obliged him and flapped over to his arm without even a caw of discontent.

“Harold, leave please,” Arthur told the boy without taking his eyes off the raven. He heard more than saw the boy scurry out and close the door softly. Only Merlin could make it possible for someone to miss doors slamming, thought Arthur in exasperation before turning his complete attention back to the black bird.  

This raven, it turned out, was not half as disconcerting as that blasted little wren. It didn’t speak for one thing. Instead, it carried a small rolled up of parchment in its beak which had not been readily apparent with Harold dancing around the room like lunatic. The bit of parchment was quickly deposited into Arthur’s proffered hand and then the bird took to the air clumsily, flapping off through the window.

 _Arthur,_ the parchment read, _I fear that the coming months will be trying for all of us. I think it will be some time before I see Camelot again so I send Sir du Lac in my stead. I believe you will need his sword more than my magic._

The letter was signed with a large flourished M which Arthur thought was more than a pompous considering it was Merlin and his idiot ex-manservant really shouldn’t be able to flourish anything.

With a sigh, Arthur rolled up the note again, tucked it into his pocket, and called Harold back in. When he appeared in the tournament ring dressed in full armour and battle-ready the crowd roared its approval while Ralf nearly fainted in shock.

“This is totally unprecedented,” Arthur could hear him wailing to his neighbor, a stern looking widow with black hair, from the sidelines.

Closing out the roar of the crowd and Ralf’s histrionics, Arthur began to size up his competition as he watched them warming up. There were thirty-six contestants, including Arthur, but there was no Sir Du Lac. Arthur had scanned the list of entrants before he had taken to the field and found no mention of him. How like Merlin to send someone who didn’t show up.

Turning him mind back to the knights present, Arthur studied the knight’s fighting styles as they fought their first bouts. The knight in the purple favored his right side a bit too much, but his reach was longer than Arthur’s—a definite advantage—and he was heavier. Sir Tor was decent—a bit on the small side and he preferred to counter rather than begin with a full on assault—Tristram was all flash and no substance—no worries there. Then, there was this mysterious knight in orange. No one knew where he had come from or why, but he was good, Arthur noted, very good. This knight thought about his fight, planned, and strategized. He was tricky on top of that and he had the polished, economic movements of a veteran fighter. Arthur could hardly wait.

There were several more bouts before the herald called Arthur and his opponent, Pelleas, forward. They exchanged pleasantries, shook hands, and went to opposite ends of the ring. The judge shouted for the match to start and hurried to the sidelines. Arthur and Pelleas stared at each other from opposite ends of the ring, swords drawn, and waited.

Pelleas was the first to attack, Arthur parried the thrust easily, and began raining blows down on Pelleas, whose defence crumbled under the onslaught. The match was over in a matter of minutes. Barely out of breath, Arthur helped the man to his feet as the judge declared Sir Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot the winner.

“Practice your blocks a bit, Pelleas,” Arthur advised lightly as he patted Pellas consolingly on the back, “you’ll have me then.” He smiled encouragingly for good measure. Losses stung no matter what. The other man smiled at him tiredly and nodded before moving off.  

The worst part of a tournament for Arthur was the waiting. The fighting was great fun, as was watching the better contestants, but the moments leading up to his matches were condensed packets of nerves and eagerness in equal parts—no matter what he said to Merlin.

The knight in orange—who wore orange anyway, it was a silly color—and Arthur advanced through the ranks easily. When the knight defeated Sir Leon in his third match of the day, a general murmur of shock rippled through the crowd. Leon had been second only to Arthur in most of last year’s tournaments and to beat him was impressive to say the least.

“He’s incredible, Arthur,” Leon told him approvingly when Arthur went to visit him after the match, “he completely outclassed me.”

By the end of the day the city was buzzing with anticipation. Grizzled old men were taking bets in the stands and the young ladies were squabbling over who they would take to the feast that night. Never mind that they had no idea what the Orange Knight looked like. I hope they’re all horribly disappointed with him, Arthur thought uncharitably.

Standing in the lists, Arthur’s nerves ratcheted up several more notches as he listened to the hum of the crowd. Their anticipation barely contained. After what seemed like an eternity, the judge called them both into the ring. He rattled off the rules and called them to attention.

“Begin!”

In the center of the ring, the two men circled each other warily, swords held at the ready. Arthur could feel the tension building and thrumming through his body almost as if the other man was giving off a detectable aura. His nerves had disappeared with the word begin and he was settling for a glorious match.

Without warning the knight surged forward, crowding into Arthur’s space and forcing him back. Pressing his advantage, the knight rained a succession of quick, stinging blows down on Arthur who barely managed to defend himself against the onslaught. Breaking apart, the two stood there for a moment, panting, and assessing their opponent. Arthur wasn’t sure who moved first, but they clashed together again with a clang. Their swords locked together and the two were pressed body to body, struggling for the upper hand.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Arthur heard a voice that sounded like his old training instructor snarl, “Make space, damn you. Make space.”

Responding, Arthur crashed a foot into his opponent’s knee. When there was no opportunity make one. The knight’s leg slid out from under him and he lost his balance momentarily, giving Arthur a chance to push himself away and reset.

Back on his feet, the other man settled into a defensive stance, apparently rattled, and waited for Arthur to make the first move. Happy to oblige Arthur aimed a powerful blow to the man’s head.  He dodged and Arthur’s sword scrapped against the side of his helmet with a screech and a shower of sparks instead of sending the man sprawling.

The blow was enough to disorient the other man for a split second and Arthur struck out lightning fast and sent the knight reeling once again. Arthur smirked and pressed forward, striking the side of the man’s helmet with the flat of his blade. The man, already on unsteady feet, tumbled and lay on the ground prone.

Arthur, confident in his victory as always, approached him guard down. Suddenly, the man was swinging his legs into Arthur’s knocking him down and he was surging up to his feet. The next thing Arthur knew was he was on his back with a sword point pressed to his neck.

“Do you yield, sire,” the man asked and it was all suddenly achingly familiar. Arthur stared up in amazement.

“Lancelot?” he croaked. The man reached up, tugged off his newly dented helmet, shaking sweat out of his eyes. Discarding it heedlessly on the ground, he turned back to Arthur, grinning.

“It’s good to see you, your Majesty,” Lancelot answered warmly, gripping Arthur’s forearm tightly and helping him to his feet. The two embraced, clapping each other heartily on the back and turned to the crowd. Lancelot leaned over as they waved at the audience and whispered in Arthur’s ear, “Merlin sends his regards.”

Arthur’s head whipped around in surprise. “You are Sir Du Lac then, I presume.”

“At your service,” Lancelot replied, touching his chest and performing a very slight bow.

“You will have to tell me how you came by the Sir,” Arthur said after a moment.

“Of course, sire.”

\---

The feast that night proved to be much more entertaining than any of the others. There was much more alcohol and Arthur was quite pleased with the roast duck— he had  to remember to send his compliments to the cook—and Lancelot kept the adoring masses of women at bay. Apparently, they preferred to stare starry eyed at them from a distance than interrupt their conversation.

“Lancelot, what have you been doing since you left Camelot? Fighting, certainly, but what else,” asked Arthur as he called for another round of ale.

“Traveling here and there in France mostly,” Lancelot answered, “I traveled with Merlin for a while, obviously. He persuaded me to come back to Camelot.” Arthur felt the familiar jolt of excitement and panicked butterflies of anticipation at Merlin’s name.

“How is he, then?” Arthur asked, trying not to sound too eager for any scrap of news. He thought he pulled it off quite well considering he hadn’t heard more than a few sentences combined (and most of those were from the past week) from Merlin in years.

Lancelot laughed. Apparently, not that well. “The same Merlin,” he answered, “A bit scruffier, but the same.” Arthur tried and failed miserably to imagine Merlin with a beard.

“He told me to tell you to beware Vortigern as well as Caradoc and Lot.”

“Oh really? And how does he know that? It’s not as if he’s been here recently,” Arthur snapped, the words coming out harsher and angrier than he wanted.

“He says he dreams,” Lancelot answered simply which made Arthur stop. Things with Merlin, it appeared, had changed more than his new knight was letting on. Morgana had always been the one with Sight, not Merlin. Merlin was lucky if he knew were his own feet were.

“Come, Lancelot, tell me about you travels,” Arthur coaxed jovially, abruptly changing the subject. “Tell me about France. Tell me about your heroic deeds and adventures.” True to form Lancelot stuttered, blushed, and looked exceedingly humble as he recounted a tale about defeating a basilisk for a noble, but aging king who in return knighted him anew.

“You see, King Arthur, it was just good luck and good help. I was lucky to have Merlin with me and Viviane,” Lancelot said, adding this Viviane woman as an afterthought.

“Who?”

“We came across Viviane when her village was being attacked by raiders. We took care of them in fairly short order and Viviane took a shine to Merlin. She trailed after us for a long while. Merlin seemed to like her almost as much as she liked him. I’ve never seen him take to anyone else quite like that. They would spend half their time together discussing spells.” Lancelot must have seen a dark look crossing Arthur’s features because he hastily added, “We parted ways months ago. She came to a little town called Laniscourt and decided to put down roots. I think they had quite a row about it. She wanted him to stay and, well, Merlin’s roots are here and he told her no.”

Arthur tried, he really did, to suppress the pleased flutter in his stomach. Of course, Merlin belonged here. Destiny and all that.

“Thank you, Lancelot,” Arthur replied and then after a moment, “it’s good to have you back.”

Lancelot smiled widely and answered, “It’s good to be back, Sire. Now, if you don’t mind, Guinevere and I have some catching up to do as well.”

Arthur threw his head back and laughed. Still chortling, he said, “By all means, don’t let me stand in your way.” Lancelot ducked his head and grinned shyly before leaving him to approach Gwen. Arthur watched them for a moment as Lancelot bent to kiss his lady love’s hand. Gwen blushed furiously, but looking happier than Arthur could remember seeing her in a very long time.

The feast went on merrily long into the night. Arthur was pleasantly drunk by the end and much happier than he had been in months. That night he went to sleep with a full belly and his head buzzing with thoughts of Merlin.

\---

Arthur woke not two hours later to someone pounding on his door and bellowing, “Arthur! Sire! You have to get up!”

“This better be good,” grumbled Arthur under his breath, rolling out of bed, and stomping to the door. “What is it,” he snapped as he yanked the door open and found Sir Owain outside, fist raised to begin his pounding again.

“There has been a message from King Vortigern of Powys,” Owain told him grimly, “he has just declared war on Camelot.”


End file.
